


come.

by jjwritesthings



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Memories, Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Mentioned TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Reflection, Self-Reflection, Songfic, Sort Of, Twins Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, he's learning to be better, phil watson is a bad parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29337618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjwritesthings/pseuds/jjwritesthings
Summary: It's a rainy day, and Phil is left alone with the ghost of his son.Ghostbur sings, Phil reminisces.Phil tries to heal.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	come.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polographic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polographic/gifts).



> Man I really speed ran this work compared to my past ones haha...
> 
> Anyways, the song that inspired this is called 'come' by Adrianne Lenker (though I changed some of the lyrics to fit better with uuhhh the characters yes), and honestly her album 'songs' is so so beautiful, please do have a listen to it when you get the chance. When I watched the stream where Ghostbur introduced Friend to Phil and had his little serious talk with Phil, it killed me. I also saw an angsty animatic of Phil from the same stream, and man I was listening to the song and it all clicked. So here we are, albeit a bit late.
> 
> 'come' had to be my favourite song off the album, but honestly all the songs fit well for SBI so this may or may not become a series...we'll see :)
> 
> https://youtu.be/AlxywwnqYMo (Here's the link to the animatic that inspired a little bit of this btw)
> 
> Please do enjoy this, maybe even listen to the song while reading it! It definitely creates a lovely atmosphere :)
> 
> I had a great time writing this, hope you have a great time reading it <3

The tip tap of rain hitting the roof of an old, tired angel’s house quietly fills in the empty silence of the dull day. Grey clouds moved leisurely in the sky, swirling, dancing as they made their way across the skies above of L’Manburg. It was a cold winter, and with no snow to brighten up the land, Phil was left with the dripping rain down onto his house to accompany him.

House arrest was a lonely one, and a ghostly shell of a son and the rain hardly did anything to help Phil’s aching heart. He knew he shouldn’t be angry that he was forced to stay here in his home, shut in and unable to go out and see Techno, or anyone; he knew Tubbo and the others were simply doing it out of fear and anger for what had happened to their home. The wars had taken a lot out of each of the kids, and even he was tired from it.

 _Kids._ It sent a shiver down his spine.

The 16th had turned everyone’s world upside down and sideways. Phil oddly smiled at the thought. That was his son for you, Wilbur was always one to leave you reeling, to leave his own mark. He looked out his window to see the water that had filled the hole from November, the newly added coral and seaweed being a nice touch and contrast to the destruction that was left behind. _And leave a mark he did._

Phil’s jaw tightened and he looked away, shutting his eyes tightly to dissipate the sombre thoughts. He sat upstairs, sheltering inside from the cold rain but keeping the doors to his balcony open to get some fresh air into the house. Fresh air. He had needed a lot of that recently, for it felt that everywhere near L’Manburg and everyone all smelt like ash and gunpowder. They all smelt like a never-ending cycle of destruction, doomed to repeat itself, tragedy after tragedy. He heard the echo of Techno’s voice chanting the story of a hero doomed over and over again to Tommy- _his youngest, his little fighter, his little rebel-_ and he felt such a hard twist in his stomach, he thought he might be sick. 

Fresh air and the rain dripping onto his balcony, that’s what there was, that’s what he needed. It was not, however, what his company needed. Quite the opposite, actually. 

He watched the hollowed ghost of his son giggle in the rain as he whispered small anecdotes about his day to the quaint little blue sheep he had lovingly named ‘Friend’. The hiss that came from the rain hitting Ghostbur was enough to irritate Phil to the point of edging concern. “Wil! Get back inside here, you’re going to melt!” Phil yelled out to Ghostbur, who was still playing out on the spruce deck below. His wispy grey met Phil’s and he gave a childish smile in return, waving eagerly. “Sorry Phil! I’ll come inside with Friend now!” He beamed, and Phil couldn’t help but give a small grin in return. 

Phil gave a small exhale of tiredness as he made his way downstairs to help Ghostbur tie Friend up somewhere in the house. His brows furrowed again. He should be grateful to be able to have his son back, in some form at least. He had gotten Wilbur back, hadn’t he? This version of Wil, a childish, naïve, forgetful version of his son, a reverted young Wilbur from years ago. He should be more grateful than this, but all it did was hurt. He hardly knew who his son was at the end anyway, and now this being- Ghostbur, well, it didn’t make trying to find out what happened to Wilbur any easier. 

The beaming ghost wearing a yellow sweater happily made his way into Phil’s home downstairs as he blathered to the sheep about how his day had gone and the observations he had recently made on Tubbo and Fundy. Sometimes, Phil had the chance to listen to Ghostbur’s antics about the little things he would notice about someone, a certain manner to their speech or a lack of reaction or emotion to something. It was the little things like that which Phil thought kept that dark bit of Wilbur alive, the mysterious watcher who always knew more than he would lead you on to believe. Ghostbur wasn’t Phil’s son in many ways, Wilbur had died in the Final Control Room right in his arms. 

But, in this way, Wilbur lived on.

It gave Phil hope.

He watched Ghostbur settle down the sheep soon enough, coaxing the animal into a soft slumber whilst stroking its head, and soon enough the fluffy creature had fallen asleep. Ghostbur was always so gentle. Phil wondered if Wilbur had still been that way with his brother during those last months. There’s a tugging feeling of something in his heart, saying _‘no, he wasn’t’._

Ghostbur looked up to Phil, getting up from where he had kneeled down, giving him a grin. “Phil, it’s good you brought me and Friend inside, I would have melted by now!” Ghostbur said it jokingly enough, but it unsettled Phil still. The thought of losing this version of Wilbur still tormented him some nights. All he did in response was return the small smile and nod.

“Oh and- it’s Ghostbur, not Wilbur, Phil. I’m not Wilbur, I’m a ghost! So it’s Ghostbur, yeah?”

Oh, right.

The comment was harmless but it had still struck Phil between the ribs. The childish parts of Wilbur he remembered kept him alive in that way. He was having a hard time letting go.

“Yeah, of course,” came his short reply. Ghostbur only nodded his approval with a gentle smile, and that was the end of that.

Phil leaned on a wall nearby as he watched Ghostbur wander about his house, humming a tune to himself as he seemed to busy himself with a task of finding something unknown to Phil. He was pacing around the kitchen now, looking worried. Phil picked up on it.

“You looking for something, mate?”

Ghostbur whipped around to meet Phil once again and a soft smile came onto the grey face. 

“Just the guitar, Phil, do you have it here?” 

It was an innocent question enough, but something sank so low in Phil’s heart he felt like an anvil had taken its place. It was a painful thought to reminisce on, how even the desire for music carried on into this shell of his son. He’s glad, really, that it had stayed, but every little piece of Wilbur that stayed in Ghostbur was a burning memory of the Wilbur Phil could maybe still have had if he had just been there even maybe even _a week, a month earlier._ He didn’t let that all show on his face.

“How about we go upstairs and check up there?” 

And that’s how Phil found himself sitting next to Ghostbur, the two of them on the balcony with what little shelter the small roof of the balcony provided them as Ghostbur plucked away aimlessly on the guitar strings. Phil didn’t know much about music, but the combination of the guitar and the soft pitter patter of rain created a calming atmosphere, even enough for the voices to hush and for his thoughts to mellow over. It was quiet, but it felt warm on that cold afternoon. 

Soon enough Ghostbur had a tune going, a soft and simple plucking progression that numbed Phil’s mind blissfully. Something in his heart stirred, as if the song was taking them out of time, out of this place and back to their home, where Phil had three young sons and only the night to worry about. When Tommy could still look Techno and Wilbur in the eyes and be filled with admiration, instead of fear, when Phil only needed to think about what was going to be for dinner that night.

Then Ghosbur started singing.

_“Come help me die, my father,_  
_Walk me beside the river to the beach._  
_Take a branch, take a life,_  
_Take my left with your right.”_

Ghostbur’s soft voice carried along the lyrics beautifully, but the juxtaposition of the tone compared to the words made Phil’s throat tighten up. He knew that Wilbur had always written songs with the truth weaved into them, some raw and in your face, others hidden behind metaphors, asking to be solved, taken apart. They always had a story to tell, a feeling to face. Wilbur’s songs, even the more cheery ones (which were sparse, considering Wilbur), were always trying to tell you something. Was his son trying to poke somewhere sore intentionally with that first line?

_“Don't be afraid, my dear,_  
_Take me into the shore,_  
_I'm not cold, I'm not cold,_  
_Take my hand, take a hold.”_

Maybe it was because now that Wilbur was well- _Ghostbur,_ he wrote songs differently, maybe Phil hadn’t taken enough notice to see a change in Wilbur’s style. Maybe he was getting sensitive again, or it was just late. Yet, somehow, the soft sung lyrics reminded him of a time when Wilbur and Techno were still just toddlers, tumbling around, still new to the freedom of walking, hell, Tommy hadn’t even been _born_ yet, and Phil was close to having a heart attack, terrified that his boys might take a wrong step and end up cracking their skull open. He made the twins take a hand from their father on each side, and he had leaned down to assist them even though it was killing his back, he held his two little sons’ hands as he walked them through the fields of a farm next to a town where they lived nearby. 

It had rained the other night, and droplets of last night’s dew settled among the grass as the bright young boys squealed and laughed their way throughout the whole walk, either making Phil fuss over them or winding him up, or when the long grass ticked their small faces, with the cold drops serving as a way to wake them up when they got drowsy during their journey. Phil remembers seeing Wilbur, bright eyed and curious, a little damp in places from the water that had brushed passed him, and had asked Phil if it was okay to still hold his hand, even though it was wet and cold.

Phil wishes he could hold his hand now, cold or not.

 _“Let me lie on your arms,_  
_I'm weightless in the sea,_  
_Up to my ears the salt sits_  
_In a circle around me.”_

This song...it’s quiet. Not literally quiet, in that way that there’s a lack of noise, but there’s a lack of voice, and when the voice is there, it says little and then the music takes over again. Phil hears nothing but the guitar and the muted sound of rain, and he knew the cold he felt was from the outside, but it felt as if the song was sending a cold hush through his body, his veins. Like a spike of warm ice had been planted and was growing in his soul. What had Wilbur written again some months ago?

_‘The taste of salt. Air in my lungs.’_

How long had Wilbur been drowning in his time alive before Phil had arrived? Was he still now, in this limbo state? Was he still?

 _“Take my life into your life,_  
_Take a branch with your knife,_  
_Come help me diе, my father.”_

Wilbur always had a way with his words. It had started L’Manburg after all, the revolution, the elections. _Everything,_ Phil’s mind screamed. Wilbur’s words sparked life and death into this place, and he died in it. Yet, in this ghostly form, singing a song which made Phil’s heart feel as though it was being slowly drained out and then filled again, like it had always done, every time, Wilbur lived on and on and on. Parts of Wilbur, left in the sewers or in remains of L’Manburg below, to rot in the ravine and in this naïve ghost, parts of Wilbur refused to leave him, leave everyone.

Had this been a curse inflicted upon him for killing his own son? Or was this some twisted blessing in disguise, some form of forgiveness for his actions?

Phil never seemed to have the answers to the questions he needed to know the most.

He expected there to be more singing, but soon enough only the plucking of the guitar filled in the silence once more. Phil’s thoughts slowly came back to him again, even though they had never really left, and they trickled in as he began to ponder once more. The song... it wasn’t too like Wilbur’s style, but then again, Wilbur hadn’t actually played his guitar for a very long time, according to Tommy and Tubbo. It stopped somewhere around the time Pogtopia was created. Another reason would be...well, this ghost, it wasn’t really Wilbur, it was of course in some ways still some parts of him sticking around, but Ghostbur was considered as a separate person. Even the ghost himself agreed on that. Phil tried to hold onto whatever part was left of Wilbur anyway.

“It’s a nice song you wrote, Ghostbur,”

The ghost blinked a couple times as he looked at Phil, a slightly curious and confused expression across his face. He smiled lightly. “Thank you, but I actually didn’t write it,” A calming tone laced his voice as he replied.

All Phil did was raise a brow in question, and Ghostbur continued on. “Tommy did! Isn’t that nice? I’m so proud of him, that he wrote his first song,”

When had Wilbur taught Tommy how to play? It must have been during L’Manburg’s early days, maybe even earlier, in the caravan maybe? It made Phil realise he knew little about his sons after they had left for Dream's land. It reminded him of what he had missed, what he could have had, what could have been. He looked up to what had now become the night sky, the grey clouds having dissipated, leaving the dark blue night sky and the pin pricked stars to hang over the lands below. The rain hadn’t stopped.

Was Wilbur ever meant to be? Was his family, his happiness, ever meant to be?

Ghostbur didn’t seem to notice Phil’s unrest and carried on speaking. “I did change a lyric, though,” the younger’s voice softened slightly, as if he was remembering something pleasant. “see, when it goes _'Come help me die, my father’?_ ” He quickly sang the lyric again with the guitar so naturally, as if it held no weight to it. Phil could almost believe it didn’t. All he did was nod, letting his son continue on. “Yeah, well that actually originally is _‘my brother’_ instead of _‘my father’_ but Tommy said I could change it if I wanted to,"

The words held more weight than ever then, as Ghostbur talked about Tommy’s not so newfound love for music and writing. Phil hardly listened to what the other chattered about, his mind drifting to a scene of where Tommy was singing the song alone with a guitar, late into the night, with only the stars and his voice to keep him company. What riddled his mind with confusion more though, was the question of what exactly had happened to Tommy in exile, or even before that, to make him write something like this. It was so unlike him. Tubbo had been of little help, even with providing what information on Tommy he could to Phil, he was mostly as closed off as Tommy was himself.Clearly something had shaken the boys up to the point of refusing to communicate, or communicate as easily, at least. 

He turned back to observe the chatty ghost once again, though he was really looking through him, to the lanterns that hovered above the decks of L’manburg. Wilbur had left a mark on the land, and set off a ricochet in everyone else’s hearts forever. Would it ever stop?

He tuned back in to hear Ghostbur commenting about the lyrics once more. “He said that either worked actually, isn't that cool? He said that it meant the same thing really," Phil noticed the prideful grin that spread across his grey face just then.

“He said...that it was about our family. That it’s about him, and also the four of us! Isn’t that nice, Phil? Isn’t it nice that we’re all in his song?” Ghostbur’s smile only grew wider, and maybe if it was day time, Phil could have seen the sparkle in his eyes too. He strained a smile and gave a small nod again, the threat of tears spilling coming extremely close. It _should_ be nice, considering how happy Ghostbur looked about Tommy’s song, but the growing ache of what the song really meant wasn’t leaving Phil’s bruised heart. 

The ghost must have picked up on what Phil was truly feeling, and didn’t say anymore, instead putting the guitar to one side gently, and then sitting quietly next to Phil, both of them watching the stars above. The rain had stopped, but Phil thought on, thoughts, questions, emotions all swirling in his head as he stared into the night sky, the deep navies painting the sky and drawing his eyes to the moon. 

Phil had failed one son already. Every day he found himself questioning his irrational decision to assist in Wilbur’s suicide, his last final ‘wish’. He had always been soft for his boy, a special place in his heart reserved for Wilbur, and he was always weak when his son wanted something when he was young, putting on a puppy face for Phil to sway him. He hardly ever said no to the face. He wishes he could have just been hard that one time, he wishes he could have just been stubborn just that once. Where had that all gone? Dying with Wilbur, faltering in both their weakest moments when he should have been the strong one for both of them? What happened to the both of them there in that room? The pair that sat there, blood staining the stone below their feet and both of their hands, were separate to who Phil and Wilbur were now, separate to who they were just a few months ago. What had happened to that?

The night is quiet, but the song haunts Phil that evening as he gazed into the night, the moon staring back at him brightly. Phil had failed all three of his sons, in some way. Somehow, he couldn’t even save his strongest, and he was forced to watch as his elder almost died right in front of his eyes, the anvil dropping onto him. It was a good thing Techno wasn’t an idiot and gave away all his stuff to the Butcher Army. It was a good thing that at least he was still stubborn. _And what about Tommy, where were you when he needed you?_ A part of him screamed. He looked to the moon and the image of Tommy alone in exile, so young, filled his mind again. 

Never again. He wouldn’t fail his sons again. He was going to be stubborn again, he was going to be there. He was going to try.

_Don't be afraid, my dear,_  
_Take me into the shore,_  
_I'm not cold, I'm not cold,_  
_Take my hand, take a hold._

That night, as a tired father and the ghost of his son watched the moon together, Phil made a promise to be the father he had been all those years ago.

And somewhere that very same night, far up north and in a cold snowy biome, a boy found his brother, and a small piece of his family came back together again.

**Author's Note:**

> me: I am not a c!Phil apologists, truly I actually don't like him currently and should greatly pay for his actions  
> also me: here's my fic of Phil learning and trying to be a good dad :)
> 
> PHIL PLEASE JUST BE NICE WITH YOUR SONS OK BYE
> 
> also when I was discussing this idea to my friend she was happy I was writing Ghostbur and Friend content and then basically-
> 
> her: yay!!! ghostbur content pog :)  
> me:  
> me:  
> me: but what if we made it angst-
> 
> all I do is suffer and create suffering I SWEAR-
> 
> anyways, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, kudos are super appreciate and so are comments! Also please leave a comment and talk IM SO LONELY-
> 
> wanna chat? come hang out with me on Tumblr at @jjcantfuckingwrite
> 
> take care! <3


End file.
